


i found you in the snow

by aim_and_ignite



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, Comfort, Description of Injuries, Eventual Romance, Flashbacks, M/M, Minor Character Death, No Smut, Scars, Strangers to Lovers, george has a cat :D, tags will be added as chapters are updated
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 00:33:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29784450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aim_and_ignite/pseuds/aim_and_ignite
Summary: In which George picks up the pieces of a stranger, collapsed and bleeding in the snow, and their histories unravel.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Kudos: 18





	1. winter lasts all year

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be updating this weekly to the best of my ability. Enjoy the read!

It’s snowing. 

The expanse of forest and bleak sky stretch for miles and miles, brambles peaking through the layers of white. Dream grits his teeth, every bone in his body is numb, and his eyes are long-dry from the piercing wind. 

He curses because it’s his fault for choosing to go this way instead of past the village and to the heart of the kingdom. Sourly, he knows it’s fault for going north instead of heading towards the kingdom’s center, where the terrain was forgiving. But he also knows going to L’manberg’s capital would mean seeing whispers of war, which take and take while leaving only memories behind. Everything is buried in ashes, whether in ceremony or surrender.

For a second, Dream regrets leaving, but quickly diminishes the thought because there isn’t anything to go back to. 

The mountains are unforgiving. Although Dream can barely see it in the setting-sun’s light, his breath curls into misty dragons from the chilling air. He’s tired. He doesn’t feel energetic. Sapnap would probably be thriving in this cold.

Thinking about Sapnap is...bittersweet

Sweet, because winter was his and Sapnap’s favorite season for the snow; it’s also when Sapnap laughed the most. Any excuse to run outside and chuck snowballs at Dream was taken, and resulted in Dream’s victory after an intense battle (admittedly, they most likely tied for many of them, but Dream’s competitive spirit says otherwise). Bitter, because the snow is consuming Dream with only a cloak to shield him. Chills run along Dream’s spine; every inch of his skin feels drenched in ice water. Bitter, because he could imagine Sapnap teasing him for shivering like a baby. Bitter, because Sapnap can’t tease him for shivering like a baby.

Bittersweet, because Sapnap won’t have to deal with the cold anymore.

Dream trudges on, wincing as the wind and snow culminate into a gusty snowstorm. He tries to stay upright, but the wind pushes against his chest and bites his fingers. He’s beaten and tired. The sea of snow cushions him; a stumbling mess becomes an unmoving mess.

_ Night is coming, _ Dream’s brain supplies him as he stares blankly at the lingering rays of light. His hands are useless. The snow is cold. Frostbite has most likely set in for good.

He curls into himself, and blearily watches the puffs of air disappear.

: :

George is glad he travelled far into the woods tonight because he ended up carrying little firewood but a lot of man.  _ Maybe not glad _ , he thinks, begrudgingly dropping a few logs of firewood to favor the man. He’s truly clinging to life, cold to the touch and breathing unsteady. Personally, George is impressed the man is still alive. With a thin, tattered cloak draped around his shoulders, he must have come from the warmer parts of the kingdom. No one with a sane mind would traverse through the Northern Mountains without proper equipment, or even try to pass through the snowy abyss (which is part of the reason why George lives here). 

The man also looks like he’s been through hell, with old scars collaged with new wounds. Dried blood stains parts of the cloak, and George can only hope most of it isn’t his. He’d have to check the medicine cabinet at home for some bandages and cream, though any open wounds would be slow to become infected in this climate.

For whatever reason, he is far from the comfort of his home, and George plans to see that he makes it back. 

The glow of his small cottage shines through the heavy snowfall, although George could probably find it without the light if the storm were heavier. He staggers up the small set of stairs and shoves the door open, a process which is very difficult with someone draped over his back. The logs he collected earlier fall haphazardly to the ground as he tries to gently lay the stranger on his pale-blue couch. 

He tidies some of the fallen logs into the fireplace, stoking the fire before grabbing a blanket from a nearby chair. George sets to untying the laces of the other’s boots, slipping off his socks, and placing them near the fire to dry. Turning around, he sees the man slouched against the couch’s armrest. “I need to take off your clothes, or else you might freeze to death,” George says, already shrugging the ruined coat off, “but you need to sit up for a bit.”

“Mmph.” George spares a glance at the man’s face, blue lips set in a frown. Managing to untie the cloak’s ties, George begins to gently remove his turtleneck, but the stranger weakly grips his wrist. 

“You’re bleeding,” George whispers, and the icy hand loosens. 

With care, George lifts the hem of the turtleneck over his head, the man’s wet hair becoming more ruffled. His face is red, and George feels his forehead, surprised by the heat he feels. A cold probably set in from the time he was outside, so George’ll have to deal with that later. Instead, he begins to fold the piece of clothing, but his eyes stray to the exposed skin-

George unwillingly lets out a small gasp, as he stares at the bruises littered across the man’s body. Some look like splotches of smeared ink, while others are only beginning to darken. A few faded scars are spread across his chest, however George is more concerned with the areas by his shoulder with dried blood. He immediately leaves to grab the medical supplies and gets to work, patching up the wounds as need be. George is surprised with how efficient he is with his care, not needing to patch someone else up in a while. Absentmindedly, he ponders about how someone would do it for him despite him wanting to do it himself; he was an independent soul. 

Wrapping up his work, George wraps a thick, wooly blanket around his shoulders. Slowly, he helps the man lay flat on the couch, head leaning towards the crackling embers. Once he’s seemingly comfortable, George busies himself with preparing something warm for when the stranger wakes up.

As the potato soup simmered, he sits in the armchair next to the couch. The book he’d been meaning tonight glares at him, rotting away on the small center table. George picks it up, flipping through the pages, but his mind wanders back to the stranger. 

They’d have to talk at some point, and George realizes he needs to brush up on his conversational skills. The monthly visit to the village which is more than half-a-day’s walk from here is the most he’s gotten as ‘practice.’ Besides talking, George is still suspicious of him; he’s learned that you can never be too trusting. Perhaps he’s a runaway or a criminal trying to escape, and will end up stealing half of George’s supplies. He hopes that isn’t the case. The man’s face feels like one George can trust.

A burning smell wafts from the kitchen bringing George back to reality. He glances at the man, snoring softly on his place on the couch, and sighs. Whatever tomorrow brought, George would be ready. 

He has to be.


	2. morning light

Awareness slowly creeps in as Dream blinks; morning light is flooding through the window. It’s blinding, the snow makes it brighter and he rolls over, the blanket around him crumpling to expose his back.

He should be dead in the snow right now.

Dream sits up in alarm, shivering as the blanket pools in his lap, and hastily covers himself in the blanket again. Dream looks away from the scars exposed without his clothes.

Said clothes are tattered, hung by the fireplace. Surrounding the sides of the fireplace are bookshelves lined with some plants and bottles, with other trinkets scattered around. A small record player is nestled in the corner. A glance behind him, and Dream’s breath is caught in his throat.

Cushioning his head with his arms is the man Dream vaguely remembers dragging him into the cabin. His chest is rising and falling, a book left open in front of him. The hardwood planks creak underneath his weight as Dream makes his way to the table, the blanket wrapped loosely around him.

Leaning over his shoulder, the book is written in a language Dream doesn’t understand. There are notes scribbled on the side which he can read, but a small mrow makes him stumble back. A grey-furred cat rests its paws on the table, looking curiously at him with eyes like a black full-moon. 

He offers his hand, which the cat sniffs and eventually rubs its head against his hand. 

“Aren’t you the sweetest,” Dream says, smiling and caresses the soft fur. It purrs with affection, and his heart melts. Taking a seat at the table, he continues to shower attention over the cat, laughing when it meows whenever he stops petting its head.

“I see you’ve met Wilby.” He nearly falls out of his chair, widened eyes landing on the chuckling man across from him.

“Yea,” Dream says dumbly, “Cute- ah, the cat is cute, Wilby is cute. I have, er, had a cat before. Her name was Patches.” 

Dream berates himself for stuttering. His head begins to pound again.

The man’s smile grows, and adjusts his posture, “and what’s yours?”

“Well, she’s a cat, I don’t know what breed-”

“I meant your name.”

“Oh. It’s Dream.” He wants to die. No, he needs to be a conversationalist. He needs witty comebacks. He needs something dumb, like a joke or pick-up lines, just not the poorly written script his brain supplies him. 

Thankfully, they move on from Dream’s mishap. “I’m George,” George closes the book, and turns his attention back to Dream, “and how are you feeling? You should probably be resting still, I’m surprised you had the energy to get up for me.”

George’s chair scrapes against the floor, and he’s holding out his arm to help Dream back to the couch. The headache persists, so Dream accepts the help. “Thank y-”

Dream yelps.

Dream slips, the edge of the blanket held down by George’s foot, and takes George down with him. He winces when his arm (thankfully not his injured one) slams against the floor, but he’s more worried about the guy who saved his life yesterday. Said man shifts, groaning in pain.

Dream realizes three things within the next moment:

1.) Lifesaver man (George, he has a name now), is underneath him, and is groaning in pain.  
2.) The only thing Dream had covering his torso was the blanket, and was now shirtless and on top of him.  
3.) Dream has a dumb pick-up line.

He scrambles off of George, using the couch as a support, and quickly yanks the blanket back around him. Slowly, George sits up, “this isn’t how imagined this morning turning out.” 

“Considering that you’ve already fallen for me, you must’ve come from heaven” Dream cracks a smile, and sees a light blush dusting George’s face. He scoffs, turning to head to the kitchen, “I didn’t think you had a fever too.” 

Dream laughs, and hobbles alone back to the couch. It’s surprising how normal he felt while talking to him.

He watches George start messing with pots in the kitchen, and smells the aroma of soup when he opens a lid.

“Genuinely, thank you, for saving me,” Dream says from across the room.

George doesn’t look up, “I was lucky to find you in that storm, luckier to find you before the snow covered you. Someone had to save you and it was me.”

“That sounds pretty heroic,” Dream stares at the walls of the living room again, letting his eyes trace the curves of each piece of memorabilia. 

“I’m far from it, though neither are you, with the tripping and all,” Dream gasps. His honor is being threatened.

“It was the blanket’s fault!” he protests, gesturing to the offending piece of wool. 

“I know what I saw.” George brings two steaming bowls to the table in front of the couch, and places one close to Dream. “I made it last night, in case you woke up,” he says. 

“Ah, thanks,” Dream reaches and takes a sip, enjoying the hot soup. He revels in the warmth, and convinces himself that this soup is curing him. 

They eat together in comfortable silence, George getting seconds for Dream because he is starving (despite Dream insisting he can do it himself). At some point, Wilby curls next to Dream on the couch, and George mouths traitor at him, making Dream laugh.

Easily, they fall into a conversation about cats, Dream talking about Patches, and George about Wilby (who he found following him from one day, and took him in).

He’s happy, Dream realizes while George is cleaning their dishes, and it’s a sad thought. It feels like betrayal to those he left behind because they deserve to be happy. He should’ve ran back, he should’ve fought and struggled more. Maybe then, everyone would have been safe and wouldn’t have been hurt. They wouldn’t have to know the pain of watching their loved ones be beaten in front of them. 

George taps his shoulder, tipping his head towards the fireplace, “I finished up- we can keep talking over there.”

Dream breathes. 

He’s hurting too much inside, but at least he isn’t alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hallo! thanks for reading. i'm struggling with characterization and it shows. anyways, cya next week.


	3. memories

_ His hands are trembling. The pillagers are towering over him. They’re hitting Sapnap again, it should be him who’s being hit, he’s screaming for them to stop it, he’s crying to let them go- _

“Dream?” 

_ They jeer and cackle, they drag him by the collar of his cloak, Sapnap wheezing at his side. There’s blood staining his angel white shirt. The thrum of horse hooves sends his thoughts into a mess. He’s shoved off the horse, Sapnap is gritting his teeth, glancing at him and back at the brutes. He nods, and they both kick at them, managing to make one of them drop their crossbow. He stands victoriously, the pillager rolling on the ground. The release of a crossbow echoes in the woods, and he whips his head. “Sapnap!” _

“Dream!” Dream faintly realizes he is screaming. His throat hurts. Sweat is beading at his temples, droplets rolling down. It’s sweltering. He needs air-

_ He can’t see the tip of the arrow. Sapnap looks at him, and falls. The pillager draws another arrow, but he is faster. The offending crossbow is cracked, and the offender collapses on the ground. He rushes to Sapnap’s side. Sapnap is gurgling something. The blood is welling in his throat. Angel white is crimson red. _

He feels a hand grip his and oh- Dream’s gripping the blankets, crumpling the innocent fabric. He loosens his grip.

_ Sapnap smiles, like everything is okay, but it isn’t. Oh, how it isn’t. His dumb smile could fix all the bad days but not this. He’s on the ground, pulling Sapnap closer, because there’s nothing he can do. He knows fake-outs from killing blows. _

“Breathe for me, Dream. You’re alright,” George squeezes his hand, and Dream squeezes back, muttering senselessly.

_ He cries. He cries for what has happened, what is happening, and what will never happen. He can’t be gone. But nothing in this universe is working for him today.  _

“My younger brother used to wake up in the middle of the night,” George starts, continuing to squeeze Dream’s hand with a pulse, “he saw some pretty awful stuff that no one should have to see. I always came to his room and held his hand till he calmed down. Sometimes we’d tip-toe back to my room so he could sleep next to me.”

_ He’s gone. _

“Sometimes we’d just play in my room that day, or I’d read him a story from my collection. Without fail, my other brother would come bursting in, and spend time with us. We’d trade secrets we had like gold in a market, though they were usually dumb and untrue.”

Dream is looking at George, his breathing less erratic now that he was focusing only on George. 

“If I ever get the chance to go back, I’d do it again- I’d want to be a child untainted by the war. Even for a little while, I’d feel safe in a way I haven’t felt for years. I wouldn’t be lonely.” George looks back at Dream, hand in his, and after a moment says, “you’d be welcome in my room if it made you feel safer.”

Dream minutely nods, and George leads him there. George lets his hand go to carry the blanket Dream had earlier and lays at the foot of the bed, next to Wilby. Wilby looks up at Dream curiously, receiving a few head scritches. 

Lifting the covers, George slips in, and Dream beside him, backs towards each other. Wilby slots himself between them, purring softly by their heads. The coziness lulls Dream to sleep, the memories fading into the dark.

: :

When Dream wakes, he feels hair tickling his chin. Blankly, he registers that there’s a body curled against his, their breathing nearly in sync. One of his arms is trapped, and he tries to wiggle it-.

“Mmm.”

_ Ah _ , _ George. _ .. _ George? _

Dream, still drowsy, realizes where he is, and last night (more like earlier this morning) comes flooding back to him. Admittedly, he isn’t proud of his outburst, he keeps stuff like this under the wraps, but...the softness in George’s voice gives him mixed emotions. Though gentleness is not something Dream is used to, it doesn’t mean he savors every bit of it. 

He gives up on trying to free his arm. George is deadweight and sleeping soundly. The last thing he wants to do is wake him up like Dream had earlier. Eventually, he yawns and submits himself back to sleep. 

It couldn’t hurt to stay down for a little while, and he wants to keep the safe quiet upon them for a little longer.

: :

Seemingly a moment passes, and Dream is awake again. George isn’t in bed (it’s much colder now), leaving Dream to stare at the bare ceiling. He turns to look at the walls instead. There are maps of the sky with messy writing plastered against the walls, and papers littered on the desk by the bed. The uncleanliness of the room did not match the rest of the cabin.

From where he’s sat up, he has a perfect view of some of the half-open drawers of the desk. The silver glint within one catches his eye, and Dream leans to grab it like a child finding the tip of a shell in the sand. 

Dream’s eyes widen. It’s a small insignia, with ivy surrounding a silver crown, and  _ L’manberg _ beneath the crown. 

He flips it, the inscription on the back-

“MROW!”

Startled, he whips his head to the doorframe where Wilby is sitting. He yowls again and quickly disappears. Floorboards creak as footsteps approach the door. 

“Dream?” 

Dream shoves the insignia under the cover of blankets when the brunette pokes his head into the room. “Oh good, you’re awake,” George says, “I told Wilby to tell me when you woke up.”

“Smart cat,” Dream replies simply.

“Very,” agrees George, Wilby meowing approvingly by his legs, “I made breakfast- plating the food now. Hope you like eggs and potatoes.”

“I do.”

“Good,” George smiles, and his heart stutters, “get out of bed before the food gets cold.” He disappears from the doorframe, Wilby trailing behind him. 

Dream’s left alone again with the piece of silver still in his hand. He pockets it, unsure of what to think. The words inscribed on the back are burned in his mind.

_ ‘George the First.’ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ajfdlk once again i struggled to write this, but i think i did alright! had a rough week but writing helps me get through it. hope y'all are doing good :)


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